Rebecca opened the door and found on the other side of it a man with curly red-gray hair and black eyes grinning at her.
“You are pretty!”
“Thanks.” Rebecca couldn’t help smiling at that greeting. She opened the door wider.
“Tom said you were pretty.”
“Did he?” Rebecca was oddly disappointed. She’d assumed Fionn must have said it.
“Mmmm. He also said you didn’t like to flirt.”
Rebecca shrugged with a half smile.
“Fionn, leave her be,” Sheila called from the kitchen. “Tom’s like his father here. If they meant anything by it, Maggie and I would have ’em living at the pub.”
“Tom and I would never last. And who’s this? Is this the legendary Rowan Moray of O’Flaherty’s Pub?”
Rowan beamed.
“They’re tellin’ stories and singin’ songs to your courage down there. May I shake your hand? That Sean’ll not come near you now!”
Giggling, Rowan shook Fionn Sr.’s hand.
“Miss Rowan, if it’s all right with your mum, would you like to go check on the cows with me after breakfast? You can ride the horse.”
“Uh—” Rebecca shook her head.
“Can I, Mama?” Rowan pleaded, jumping out of her seat.
“Ah, let her go. She’ll remind Fionn to come home. Sometimes I have to go out and fetch him in when he gets to talking with those cows.”
Rebecca thought for a moment. She remembered John and Fionn talking the night before about riding the horse as a child. Rowan had never ridden a horse, but it was what children who lived on the island and called it home did. No safer place than here, she reminded herself. Rebecca nodded reluctantly.
“Thanks, Mama!” Rowan said, hugging her mother’s legs. The little girl raced into the bedroom, Trace on her heels.
Glancing over at Fionn Sr., Rebecca found him studying her. He smiled broadly and slipped next to Sheila. “A peat fire, a breakfast cooking, and you. I am a happy man.”
“Make yourself useful and pour Becky a cup of tea.”
“A cup of tea for Becky, a peat fire, a breakfast cooking, and you. I am a happy man.”
Sheila laughed. With a wink, Fionn Sr. handed Becky her cup of tea, and as Rebecca looked into his black eyes, she saw truly the older version of the younger man she had met last night. Her brow furrowed as she thought of slamming the door in Fionn’s face the night before.
“You all right there, Becky?” Fionn Sr. asked, placing his hand on her shoulder.
“Sorry. Yes. Yes, I’m all right.”
CHAPTER 7
Twisted Stitch
Twisted Stitch. 1. A twisted stitch is caused by placing the needle through the loop of a single stitch in the wrong direction.
Though usually an error in the process of either knitting or purling, some patterns can be created by purposely twisting stitches
(i.e., twisted-stitch ribbing). 2. Certain traits developed over a
life that define the uniqueness of a soul. 3. A mother’s touch.
—R. Dirane, A Binding Love
After breakfast, Fionn Sr. and Rowan headed out the door. Rebecca and Sheila watched them walk across the gravel drive with Trace following on their heels.
“Why’s your dog called Trace?” Rowan asked, taking Fionn Sr.’s hand.
“ He’s my son Fionn’s dog. Fionn gave him that name because the dog follows you around, tracing your steps.”
Rowan giggled.
“You be careful, Rowan,” Rebecca called.
“I’ll look after her.” Fionn Sr. waved over his shoulder.
Rebecca folded her arms in front of her, imagining Rowan falling off the horse.
“How big’s the horse?” she asked.
“Not too big and very, very old,” Sheila replied, placing a reassuring arm around Rebecca’s waist. “Come on. I’ll help you unpack.”
Rebecca watched Rowan running up the lane as she stepped back into the house. Sheila shut the door.
“She liked his compliment on her courage,” Rebecca said.
“It’s all over town.”
“Is it?”
“You meet Sean?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“In 1967 Sean lost his four sons—drowned in a storm while fishing. He’s not been the same since. Not that he was too pleasant before, mind. He only speaks with Paddy and Eoman these days—usually just about the weather.”
“Paddy and Eoman. I met them last night. Now, who are they?”
“They come from the oldest fisherman families on the island. Paddy Blake is from the Blakes and Eoman O’Connelly is from the Fitzpat ricks, on Eoman’s grandmother’s side. Well, aside from the Morahans, but there’s only Sean left there. Paddy and Eoman are partners.”
“Paddy has one child,” Rebecca muttered. Since she had slept well the night before, some of Sharon’s tales had returned to her memory. “Siobhan.”
“That’s right.”
“Rowan met her last night. And the farmer who has seven children?”
“Fitzgibbon.”
“Right, right. Oh! He had a problem last night. John had to go there. That’s how I ended up in the pub.”
“What problem?” Sheila inquired, turning on the water in the kitchen sink.
“Uh—with bees and Trace?”
Sheila burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Ah, you’ll see. You need to talk to his wife, Mairead, anyway. She has many knitting stitches from her family. She’s from the island just north.”
“Mairead,” Rebecca repeated, filing the name with “Fitzgibbon” and “bees.” “I need to write this stuff down.”
She stepped into the bedroom, knelt down, unzipped the black duffel, and rummaged through its contents for a notepad and a pencil.
“Honestly, Sheila, you all on this island are so confusing! Fionn Jr. and Tom are brothers. Maggie, Sharon’s sister, is married to Tom. Eoman O’Connelly is a Fitzpatrick on his grandmother’s side. Sharon is an O’Connelly married to John Fitzpatrick, which means somehow Eoman and John are related.”
“Cousins,” Sheila said, grinning as she leaned against the bedroom doorframe, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “And it’s not Fionn Jr. It’s ‘my Fionn’—the older one. And just Fionn—the younger one.”
Rebecca fell back on her bottom.
Sheila laughed.
“It’s hopeless. I’ll never keep it straight. It’s been years since Sharon and I talked about all this.”
“Ah, Becky. Look how many of us there are. We’ve had stories of you from Sharon, but you—you have a lifetime of stories to remember about all of us. It’ll come back.”
Meeting Sheila’s gaze, Rebecca found hazel certainty in her eyes. That was a comfort.
“You knit?” Rebecca asked.
“Aye.”
“You working on something now?”
“Christmas gifts.”
Rebecca stood up. “Can I see?”
“Don’t you want to unpack?”
“That can wait,” Rebecca said, sliding past Sheila toward the living room. “I want to get started.” Grabbing her camera, DVD camera, and tripod, she opened the front door.
“Mine aren’t like Rose’s and Liz’s,” Sheila said as she followed Rebecca out the door.
“They’re yours, though, and that’s all that matters.”
“So you’re a doctor,” Sheila said, trotting after Rebecca.
“Doctorate. Archaeology. I specialize in textiles.”
“Textiles?”
“Clothing. Tapestries. My area of expertise is European fabrics. My dissertation actually dealt with the Viking tablet weaving of early Ireland. Anyway, I date, clean, preserve, and, mostly, study textiles. You can find out a lot about a people by their textile arts.”
“So you’re here to study our textile art?”
Rebecca looked back with a grin. “I want to record your stories from your own mouths so
scholars don’t have to try to figure out what you meant after you pass.”
“I see.”
The ocean breeze was at her back, and Rebecca listened to the waves crashing around her. Her purpose in life was to study, to research. In focus and silence, her mind sought stories and meaning from the past that were woven tightly in wool and cotton. Deciphering the intent in historical art was like solving a jigsaw puzzle for which the pieces were not all available. Some could be on the shelf of a library in New York. Others might be in a drawer in a museum in Paris. Rarely were all the pieces in one place. But with this project—the island sweaters—Rebecca had all the pieces. The islanders were famous for their unique sweaters. She was walking into the past with living people inextricably bound to it, and all she needed do was to sit and listen and record. Her heart soared.
When the women reached the two-story cottage, Sheila opened the front door and without a word they climbed a narrow staircase. Rebecca’s tripod bumped the railing as she got to the top stair.
“Ah, sorry.”
Following Sheila, Rebecca entered a tiny bedroom on the right. There, folded neatly upon a twin bed with an apricot-colored cotton bedspread, were two white sweaters. Sheila picked each one up and spread it flat on the bed.
“They’re so beautiful, Sheila.”
“Thank you. I’ll take the compliment from the expert.”
“I’ve come here as a student. To learn from the masters,” Rebecca said with a wink.
“Well, that would be Rose and Liz, then. Not me,” Sheila replied with a half smile.
“I don’t know, Sheila. Look at these! They’re wonderful. Tell me about them.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, how long does it take you to make one?” Rebecca asked, unfolding her tripod.
“About forty hours—more or less. What do we do with the camera?”
“I need stills for the book, and film so I can get your voice. I want to record what you say, exactly how you say it. You just tell me who they’re for, why you picked that stitch, anything you want to say.”
“You gonna write that, then?”
Rebecca nodded as she clipped the DVD camera to the tripod. “They both have a chevron with bobbles,” she noted.
“You’ll find many families have patterns they tend to use in their ganseys,” Sheila replied. “We don’t call them sweaters.”
“I see.” Rebecca focused the camera on the sweater and hit RECORD. “Ganseys. Okay. These ganseys are so similar. One has a double zigzag—the other has a single one. The sweater—gansey—with the single zigzag seems more elaborate, though. Who are they for?”
“My husband and Fionn. He’s like his father, but more complicated.”
“The one with the single zigzag is your son’s, then.”
Sheila nodded.
“Your Fionn’s has a braid. Tell me about that.”
“Well, I made it for him and so, to me, that’s our children—five of them. That’s called a fivefold Aran braid.”
“Braids are children?”
“Just to me.”
“The zigzag traditionally means something, though.”
“The double zigzag signifies married life—sometimes going up and sometimes down.”
“What’s the single one?”
“It usually means cliffs or something like that. For me, it means Fionn walks alone. He’s not married and he’s not getting any younger.” Sheila chuckled. Rebecca grinned.
“Oops,” Rebecca whispered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What is it?”
“There’s a twisted stitch on your son’s gansey. He’ll never notice,” Rebecca said, waving it off.
“He never does,” Sheila replied.
Rebecca glanced up to meet Sheila’s smiling eyes and then to the sweater for a closer inspection.
“There are twisted stitches all over this.”
“Aye. He’s a little twisted.”
Rebecca stood over the sweaters as Sheila left the room. Pointing her camera at Fionn’s twisted stitches, Rebecca clicked a picture and laughed.
CHAPTER 8
Diamond
Diamond. 1. A diamond stitch appears as its name and is knitted as a single column of diamonds, one ending where another begins. 2. Traditionally diamonds represent the stone walls that surround the small plots of land on the island. 3. The nature of a community of people who weather storms, celebrate sunshine, laugh, cry, live, die, and together rest eternally side by side.
—R. Dirane, A Binding Love
T he next day Rebecca and Rowan stood on the small cement porch of Sharon’s childhood home. Holding her little girl’s hand, Rebecca wished Rowan would rub her finger. She needed comfort.
The last time Rebecca had seen Peg, Sharon’s mother, was at the airport in San Francisco six years before. Tears had poured down Peg’s cheeks as she made her way through security, waving good-bye as she and Sharon left for home.
Rebecca, with one-month-old Rowan in her arms, waved in return, but no tears had come to her eyes. She needed Peg and Sharon to leave. She needed to be alone—to forget what had happened to Dennis two weeks before on Thanksgiving night. They had been there, standing with her just off Highway 1. They were part of that memory and Rebecca couldn’t forget with them in her house.
Now Rebecca stood on Peg’s doorstep, having tried to forget for six years. With every thought of visiting Peg, the memory of Dennis returned. Her heart pounded, crawling up into her throat. Swallowing hard to keep it in her chest, she reached out and knocked.
“Mama? You’re squeezing my hand too tight.”
“Sorry, Rowan,” Rebecca whispered.
Together, Rowan and Rebecca waited, listening to the shuffle of many feet and the cry of many names beyond the brown wooden door. Reaching over to her child, Rebecca tucked in the label of Rowan’s overalls, which read MADE BY THE HANDS OF R. MORAY, back into place. Of all the clothes Rebecca made, overalls for Rowan were her favorite because she could use the same pattern over and over again as her little girl grew. All she needed to do was lengthen the legs and change the fabric. Today, Rowan wore the black pair with tigers lunging, stalking, and roaring across her chest and down her legs. It was her favorite outfit.
The door opened with Maggie and eight faces of varying ages peeping out from behind her.
“Ma, it’s Becky!” Maggie announced.
“Good morning, Mags,” Rebecca said.
“Mornin’, Becks.”
“All these yours?” Rebecca inquired.
Maggie chuckled. “I’m the house all the wee ones go to, Becks.” “Lucky you.”
They laughed.
“Becky!” Peg declared as she crawled through the children blocking her way.
“Hi, Peg.”
Touching Rebecca’s face softly, tears fell from Peg’s eyes.
“Oh, Peg, don’t do that,” Rebecca said, taking the older woman into her arms.
“It’s been so long,” Peg whispered.
“Now I’m here,” Rebecca replied hoarsely, her throat tightening.
“Rowan, look at you! Last time I saw you, you were a tiny baby!” Peg exclaimed, releasing Rebecca and grabbing Rowan. The little girl glanced at her mother over Peg’s shoulder, unsure.
“Peg is Sharon’s mother, Rowan. She came to California when you were born. You wouldn’t remember.”
“Heard you were having a—what’s Sharon call it, Ma?” Maggie said.
“A moment.”
“A moment with Fionn night before last,” Maggie finished.
“News travels fast around here,” Rebecca said, shrugging uncomfortably.
“I have all the news, married as I am to the pub owner,” Maggie said with a laugh.
“Good reason to marry the pub owner, I suppose,” Rebecca replied.
“Aye. Plus it’s a small village. Steady income.”
They laughed. Rebecca reached up and ran her fingers throu
gh her hair.
“Better be off with ya, Becky. Rose and Liz will be waiting. Supper’ll be here when you’ve finished,” Peg said.
“You okay?” Rebecca asked of Rowan.
“She’ll be fine, Becks. Mum and I’ll watch her. You know how to get to Rose Blake’s house?”
“Past the church, around the corner, end of the road.”
“That’s right.”
Rebecca bent down and kissed Rowan.
“She’ll be fine, Becky,” Peg assured her.
“Thanks. See you.” Rebecca turned away, hoping to leave Thanksgiving night on Peg’s doorstep. Unfortunately, it followed her down the steps and out the gate like a lost dog. The pale light in the ambulance, Rowan’s diapered little body lying on the gurney, sirens blaring as Peg held her hand—all these memories flooded Rebecca’s mind. She gasped, turning quickly to the left, trying to distance herself from the past.
“Watch out for tourists on bikes, Becky,” Peg warned.
Waving over her shoulder, Rebecca turned down the sidewalk in front of Peg’s house and walked toward the church’s spire. Several cyclists whizzed by as she crossed the street.
“Good morning, Becky!”
Winded, Rebecca skidded to a halt. Turning around, she found Tom standing in front of his establishment with a broom. Eoman stood next to him, a twine of rope tossed over his shoulder. She couldn’t tell which of them had called the greeting to her.
“Good morning, Tom. Eoman.”
“Watch the bikes,” Eoman warned.
“Peg already told me.”
“All right then.”
Shrugging her backpack farther up on her shoulders, Rebecca continued down the street. She passed the church, which stood cold and weathered on the opposite side of the road. Four young women who were talking and laughing loudly walked toward her, their accents clearly not Irish. Rebecca had to step off the sidewalk to make room for them, and when she looked up she saw three bicyclists racing toward her. Jumping farther into the street to avoid them, Rebecca felt the wind and heard the buzz of bicycle chains whipping by. Quickly she skittered back onto the sidewalk.
“Watch out for the bikes,” she muttered, clutching her chest to still her racing heart. Peering up the street, she saw a lean man with brown hair shaved close to his head standing on the sidewalk in front of a line of bicycles. He smiled at her.
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